


Freely Given

by Scrunchles



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Krampus Junkrat, M/M, Reindeer Roadhog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: Jamison has been Krampus for millennia.  Everything was fine and dandy when he was in Europe, where people knew and respected him, but he's been in America for a few decades and his only comfort is his fed-up life partner, Mako.





	Freely Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArmsShanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/gifts).



> This is part of a trade with Shanks. She [drew me a shit post I requested about Junkrat's victory pose](https://twitter.com/Armatage_S/status/1072922059909554178) and asked for some Krampusrat in return. Thank you a hundred more times, Shanks. He's beautiful.

 

America is a barren wasteland. A barren wasteland with a shitty squatters apartment and a half-broken couch.

Jamison spent centuries drinking, punishing and pranking his way across Europe. Every winter, families left out booze for him and he would leave shitty children with welts on their asses and snow in their boots. People would have parades and parties and dress up like him and his reindeer-horned life partner. They would go out and revel with the humans, living it up until dawn came and Mako would carry his sloppy drunk ass back to their home, sated for another year on human booze and suffering.

Europe was a playground, but now they’re in America where the only Krampus celebrations are watching horror movies of a shadowy fiend in a mock-Santa costume killing people. Not shitty kids and rich people getting their comeuppance. It’s just a tawdry cash-grab, turning Jamison’s centuries old name into capitalist trash, just like they did to Nicholas.

“Just because I have this rant every year doesn’t mean you have the right to roll your eyes at me!” Jamison snaps. 

Mako grunts in response.

Jamison glares at him before walking up and grabbing him by the antlers. “I ain’t been proper wasted in over two hundred years, Mako.”

“Shame,” Mako replies.

“Why?! Because I’m easier to handle when I’m sloshed?” Jamison acusses.

Mako shrugs and Jamison knows that behind that stupid mask, he’s smirking. He also knows that he’s right. He’s seen humans detox and go on to live successful and happy lives, but Jamison isn’t a human. He’s fae and he needs a proper fucking drink offered freely. Simple as that. 

Unless he’s living on a rock with no respect for tradition or proper payment for his righteous mayhem. Right now, it’s few and far between.

“I can’t even punish shitheads in this state,” he laments, throwing himself across Mako’s lap and flicking his tail in front of the large man’s snout. “Look, my flames went out last year and I can’t get ‘em to stay lit. I’m bone dry, mate, there’s nothing to feed ‘em anymore.”

Mako grabs Jamison’s tail and pulls it closer to examine it. 

“I usually like you pulling my tail,” Jamison points out. “Right now I’m just  m i s e r a b l e .”

“The alcohol has to be freely given?” Mako asks. 

“Mhm.”

“What if it’s stolen and  t h e n freely given?” he asks. 

This is the closest to a two-way conversation that Jamison has had from him in decades. He can’t even simper and flirt to properly enjoy it. “I’d have to do some loophole gymnastics. Probably.”

Mako shoves Jamison off of his lap and then stomps out the door. 

Jamison stretches out across the couch with a whine and tries to get comfortable. He aches for liquor, but the shit Mako keeps for himself is “too good” for the likes of him. Which means it’s not given freely. Jamison closes his eyes and slips into a waking dream to conserve his energy and focus it more toward the fact that Mako is going to return with alcohol and offer it to Jamison—hopefully. If not, he’s just an asshole, getting Jamison’s hopes up.

When Mako comes back, Jamison is dozing, half dreaming of the good old days and half aching so deeply that his belly feels like it will carve itself free any second. 

Either way, Jamison can smell the booze through the glass, smell it over Mako’s reindeer musk. It wakes him up and brings him halfway to his foot and hoof before he sags back down and whines pathetically. 

“Here,” Mako says, unloading his arms beside Jamison. The bottles clink together and shift and settle into the dent Mako has made in the shitty old couch. When Jamison just stares at them longingly, Mako clears his throat and grunts, “drink them all.”

“Thanks, mate,” Jamison says, not bothering to look at the bottle, but rather busying himself with the cap. It takes him a few tries to get it open, but once he does, he seals his lips around the lip and tilts it upside down.

It only takes four gulps to drain the bottle and then he moves on to the next one and the next.

He pauses after the fifth bottle, waiting to see if he was about to get sick, but apparently freely given was a one-to-one transaction and it didn’t matter where the shit came from. Jamison cackles and opens another bottle to sip as he clears the others away and pats the spot for Mako. “Siddown, lovie. I’ll get some proper rest and then tonight, we’ll go out just like old times.”

Mako grunts and sits down on the couch, the poor frame sagging beneath his weight. Jamison shifts closer, drags Mako’s arm around him, and then begins nursing the bottle until his eyes close. Instead of half-memories and desperate snatches of sleep, he gets in a good nap for the first time in so long he can’t remember. 

Mako is still there when he wakes up, though he’s shifted them so that he’s lying with Jamison draped across him. Jamison toys with his bright red belly button idly. He knows Mako hasn’t gotten any rest in years because of his shitty sleep, but he’s a creature of mischief. Mako says his hands are only still when they’re wrapped around a glass or he’s asleep.

Jamison starts tracing the reindeer pattern in Mako’s stomach until Mako’s belly jolts and his hand wrapped around Jamison’s hip swats his ass.

“Ten more minutes,” he grunts.

Jamison grins and ticks his hands against his chest to avoid the temptation to fidget and wake Mako up again.

“ S t o p .”

“I’m not doing anything!” Jamison snaps.

“Your tail,” Mako growls.

Jamison glances back and realizes that his tail is wrapped around Mako’s leg and running up and down excitedly. “Oh. Oops.”

Mako grumbles and turns over, not dumping Jamison off the side of the couch, but pinning him beneath him and holding him closer. “Ten more minutes,” he repeats.

Jamison’s energetic and eager to get a start on his punishments, but he stays where he is, curling his tail around his own leg and desperately holding back the words clamoring to get out of his throat.


End file.
